


Don't Eat the Fucking Candy

by ficlicious



Series: Tumblr Prompts & Ficlets [14]
Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Hates Magic, Crack Crossover, F/M, Female Tony Stark, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Hates Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: “This is the last time I take you anywhere,” Toni says conversationally, wiping a smear of soot off her cheek and tucking her wind-tossed hair back into a ponytail. It makes her feel just a little bit better, a little more settled, to not have to spit locks of long black hair out of her mouth every time she wants to vocalize syllables.“I don’t see how this is my fault,” Clint says, defensive and prickly. He zips his leather flight jacket up to his chin with a sharp yank, and holds out the second he grabbed on the way off the quinjet, open and ready for Toni to put on. “It’s your tech that fritzed.”In which Toni and Clint accidentally travel in time and learn they really, really hate magic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a story starter that I've been planning on writing since I saw Hansel & Gretel Witch Hunters ages ago, because my brain likes twisting itself around to justify various headcanons that occur. Story starter for now, posting to increase motivation to finish writing.

“This is the last time I take you anywhere,” Toni says conversationally, wiping a smear of soot off her cheek and tucking her wind-tossed hair back into a ponytail. It makes her feel just a little bit better, a little more settled, to not have to spit locks of long black hair out of her mouth every time she wants to vocalize syllables. 

“I don’t see how this is my fault,” Clint says, defensive and prickly. He zips his leather flight jacket up to his chin with a sharp yank, and holds out the second he grabbed on the way off the quinjet, open and ready for Toni to put on. “It’s your tech that fritzed.”

Toni’s eyebrows go up as she turns to slide her arms into the jacket as Clint holds it for her, making a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat at the wary look in his eyes. “My tech,” she says, still in that mild tone that portends dire things ahead for anyone who crosses her path, “does just fine by itself. Your touch is death, Barton. I’ve seen you trigger a nuclear apocalypse playing Mario Kart.”

“One time,” he hisses, but his hands are gentle, steady, as he zips the jacket for her and tugs the seams into place until they lay flush against her shoulders and arms. “That happened  _ one time.”  _

“One time  _ that I know of,”  _ Toni counters, and shoves her hands into her pockets. Clint steps beside her, and they stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the quinjet sink into the mist and the bog. “There goes my suit,” she says, and does her damnedest to not let the absolute misery rolling through her stomach show on her face or in her voice. Clint probably feels shitty enough without her dumping more  _ real  _ reasons on top of him. 

“My bow and quiver,” Clint replies, mournfully. 

She glances at him, smiles faintly. “Our comms.”

Clint’s mouth twists down. “Our  _ coffee.”  _

“There goes our hopes, our dreams.”

Clint snickers, and holds a fist out, which Toni obligingly bumps. “There goes Christmas. I have to say, Stark, you’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would.”

“I laugh it off, or I start screaming and tearing you a new asshole,” Toni says, turns her back on the quinjet and, incidentally, the wind. She hunches into her jacket. “Your ass is lovely, and I think a second sphincter would ruin it, so laughing it off is the better of the two options.”

“Much appreciated then. I’ve put a lot of work into this ass. I’d hate for it to go to waste.” Like Toni, Clint turns around so his back is to both the wind and the sinking quinjet. “So what’s our next move?”

Toni lifts a hand and points vaguely east, away from the crash site and back in the direction they came from. “I thought I saw a town back there,” she says. “I figure our next move is to find it, find a phone, and then play rock paper scissors for who has to call Rogers and ask nicely for a pick-up.” She glances sideways at him, smirks faintly. “Unless your tracking skills are just as overblown and exaggerated as your piloting skills, that is, in which case, we’re fucked.”

“You said I have a nice ass, so I’ll let that snarky-ass comment go,” Clint says with a scowl. “But you’re on notice, Stark. You probably can’t find your ass without an arc-reactor powered compass, a detailed map and both hands, so you’re relying on me to lead you here. Play nice.”

“Or what, featherbrain? You’ll strand me? Then who’ll bring you the finest coffee and video games in the land? Bruce?  _ Thor?  _ Good luck, Barton. I know my value. We’re stuck together without caffeine or electronic distractions, so I guess we’ll have to make small talk or something for now.”

For some reason, that makes Clint grin in a way that unsettles Toni more than a little. “You’re going to regret saying that,” he says cheerfully, slings an arm around her shoulders and squeezes gently in a side-hug. He’s wary, watchful, careful, like he expects her to slap his arm away, but she wouldn’t. Because this? His arm around her shoulders? Is really nice. He leaves it there, and she’s grateful he does. “Natasha once threatened to cut my tongue out if I didn’t shut up. I’ll remind you that this is a woman whose career it is to get people to talk.”

Toni scoffs. “Amateur hour,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “Natasha has, on more than one occasion, forbidden me from speaking _ at all,  _ let alone told me to shut up. Rhodey once clocked me at thirteen hours, thirty six minutes, twenty eight seconds of uninterrupted chatter. Bring it, Barton.”

\----

The chatter, which manages to be both deeply meaningful and mind-numbingly inane at the same time, lasts until they get into the small, medieval-looking town and catch sight of the notices tacked up on the wall of a building near the road from the forest, and then neither of them has much to say for a long, long moment. 

Finally, Toni tears her gaze away from the hand-drawn, rough-made paper declaring a bounty on witches as of the 24th of August, year of our Lord 1287, and pins Clint with the blandest, most polite look she can muster. “Only you,” she says lightly, because she really, really wants to start screaming and this is the only way she won’t, “can manage to crash-land my fucking quinjet and strand us in the  _ goddamn Dark Ages, Clint.” _

Clint gulps, eyes skittering left and right as if looking for an exit, then squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. “Are you bitching me out, or complimenting me? I can’t tell.”

Toni laughs, probably harder than the situation strictly requires, but again, laugh or scream, and there’s more than a little hysteria in her cackling. “Can’t it be both?” 


End file.
